


The Problem

by Autor_Moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autor_Moriarty/pseuds/Autor_Moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's relationship with John isn't as satisfying as he expected it would be. His inability to open up emotionally is constantly argued and Sherlock wishes John could see that he is actually trying, but he just can't quite get to that stage that John expects him to be at. Sherlock begins to spend time with Jim and together they start to build a relationship around their mutual understanding of one another's minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with John. Far from it. As a person John was wonderful. He was strong and loyal, he cared about Sherlock, he cared for him, he put up with his idiosyncrasies… Though as a partner he was less than ideal.

The problem seemed to lie in the fact that John thought he understood how different Sherlock was up until the point that the detective failed to live up to his expectations for a normal human being, leaving John staring at a machine.

After a fight, when John would return from his walks or the night at his sister’s house, he would apologize for using the word and explain that he knew Sherlock wasn’t one, but sometimes his lack of empathy was too much to put up with. Seeing Sherlock manipulate a suspect without remorse, lying for his own ends, reminded John that he was used much the same way at times. It bothered John that he wasn’t viewed as any different than a witness for a case. The morality of it never seemed to be brought up though, just that he wasn’t better than the rest.

John usually said after that he didn’t mean to hurt Sherlock when he called him a machine, but Sherlock knew that if he hadn’t meant it to hurt at the time then he wouldn’t have said it. He wanted to know if Sherlock felt anything at all, even if it was just pain. He wanted to see the shock cross Sherlock’s face just for the satisfaction of breaking down that wall.

John didn’t get what he really needed from Sherlock, that availability, but he also had invested too much to go back. Grown too dependent, starting back when he’d been broken and had fixed himself with parts of Sherlock to the point that he could barely function without him.

Waking up from surgery after a bullet had glanced his throat, Sherlock realized just how bad off John really was when the man returned to the recovery room happy and sobbing and smelling like alcohol. He’d thrown himself on top of Sherlock and had wept into his chest for a long time, soaking the hospital gown with tears that Sherlock couldn’t understand were happy no matter how hard he tried to imagine that they could be for anything other than pain.

That was a problem with them. The lack of understanding. Sherlock understood people in the abstract sense, in statistics and generalities, but as people, emotional and weak, terrified animals scrambling for a connection to someone else to get them through life without feeling so alone, Sherlock failed miserably.

John cried several times that day in the hospital, thankful that Sherlock had been spared, with the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart on the EKG monitor echoing through the room for reassurance and seeming to not notice that Sherlock’s hands remained by his sides rather than wrapped around his soldier, scared to cling back at the connection.

Though John didn’t say anything about it at the time, too relieved to snap, it became a regular point that he made in their arguments, the time that Sherlock hadn’t held him when he’d nearly died.

But Sherlock was scared of a fragile emotional connection, one easily warped with time and an accumulation of unrealized slights until their relationship just became another statistic. Until the person that he’d thought he’d grow old with had instead grown out of love with him and was heading for the door with packed bags. He wanted something that would last, something not built on hormones flooding his body and clouding his senses, but something strong and dependable…

Like intellect. He could trust his own mind, logical thinking had never steered him wrong. And John was many good things, but logical wasn’t one of them.

 

And then he came along.

Well, Jim didn’t so much come along as make himself known to Sherlock through revealing he’d been there from the start. Sherlock’s first case, and the majority of the ones that followed, had all been his work. He’d been a constant throughout Sherlock’s entire life, tying both them and the cases together with a distinct genius that set him apart from everyone else on the planet.

The first time that they met alone wasn’t long after they’d nearly died at the pool.

It was a normal, peaceful evening, with the fireplace crackling and John wrapped up in a jumper reading beside it, assuming Sherlock was distracting himself enough with an experiment. He sometimes failed to catch the boredom that radiated from Sherlock’s posture if he wasn’t complaining loudly and didn’t even notice when, in a moment of impulsivity, Sherlock pulled out his phone and fired off a text to the number that Jim had given him.

-Bart’s Hospital rooftop. SH-

Several minutes crept by and Sherlock nearly started to complain aloud when his phone chimed.

-I’m waiting. JM-

Sherlock wrapped up tight in his coat and scarf and told John he was heading to the hospital. John reminded him in a distracted voice that he should be careful before focusing on his book again, leaving Sherlock to hurry to catch a cab.

When he first saw him, sitting on the edge, short black hair ruffled with the cold wind and a startlingly genuine smile lit by the streetlights below, Sherlock was floored by how ordinary Jim looked as he joined him. Not a monster in appearance, no fangs or claws, and from simply the playful emotions that rolled off his tongue with his lilted words, he seemed very human.

Jim asked Sherlock if he knew which cases he’d been behind and as the evening progressed and it became clearer just how significant Jim’s impact had been, as they discussed the different aspect of each crime and Jim even shed new light on cases he hadn’t even been involved in, Sherlock couldn’t help but marvel at Jim’s intellect and charms.

No, he didn’t conduct light like John, he created it, and just being near him Sherlock could feel himself growing brighter in answer, like they were furthering and expanding one another’s genius through their combined mental processes. It had to be the most singular experience of connection that Sherlock had ever had and he felt incredibly let down when Jim paused him mid explanation to say that he wanted to hear Sherlock finish his argument, but then he needed to go.

Sherlock nearly dragged things out, simply to continue to feel like this, but he knew Jim could tell when he began to add filler to lengthen it and he wrapped things up to extinguish the bored look in Jim’s eyes.

The man stood and thanked Sherlock warmly, honestly glad that Sherlock had shared his thoughts, before turning and heading off to the stairwell, hands in the pockets of his cashmere coat and eyes turned to the stars, and then he was gone.

The second time, Sherlock mostly went to confirm that being around Jim anchored him solidly to someone who entirely understood, skeptical of his own perception of their evening since he guessed he might have just been so eager to find an intellectual connection that he’d made it up. He wasn’t disappointed and when he once again left the rooftop minutes after Jim headed off, his mind continued to analyze mathematical formulae in the simplest of situations.

The third time, Sherlock went in place of getting high and it was infinitely more satisfying. Jim even apologized for a lack of cases, explaining in vague terms that something bigger had come up. Sherlock suspected it had something to do with why London’s terror alert had been raised to critical, which he knew from Mycroft’s recent agitation and drastic weight gain, and he told Jim so, expecting praise.

Jim actually scoffed at him and looked down at the street below, as if he might hurl himself off the edge, “If that’s the extent of your observational powers and you still haven’t figured out the reasons, then you’re not as good as I’d been hoping.”

Sherlock felt a little stunned, not used to anyone but Mycroft encouraging him to actually try harder with his deductions, since everyone else was satisfied with the minimum amount of work out of him, but the fear that Jim might leave drove him to exert himself and in seconds he was rattling off his answer.

Thankfully, Jim stayed.

It wasn’t cheating per se. At least John wouldn’t have seen it like that since he didn’t get how very important the chats were to Sherlock, mental stimulation over physical sensation. Still, he didn’t tell John that he was meeting Jim, partly because he knew he wouldn’t understand why Sherlock was spending time with a criminal mastermind since he’d just focus on the criminal aspect, but also because it felt unfaithful, even though nothing they did was explicit. They were already closer than any sex could bring them. They didn’t even need to touch and Sherlock still stumbled away each time feeling like he’d just had the most incredible orgasm of his life.

The visits persisted for months, at first only when Sherlock felt a craving for drugs, then when he was simply bored, then when sleep didn’t come or John had instigated unfulfilling intercourse that Sherlock agreed to in order to make his friend happy, when he needed to feel that same intimacy and satisfaction that he expected John felt.

They met on the rooftop until the snow came, at first easily ignored when it was a fine powder, but then Sherlock realized that Jim was getting more and more restless as the temperature dropped. He didn’t suggest anywhere else in case Sherlock felt forced into something, so instead he wrapped up with fashionable jumpers under his coats and thicker scarves that hid his lower face, voice muffled whenever he spoke. His hands were white and shaking whenever he gestured, which was how he tended to communicate.

Sherlock suggested leaving the rooftop for coffee one early evening as soon as he arrived, noting Jim’s bouncing leg and the flakes that had collected on his shoulders and in his hair. A good decision, since unexpected heavy snows blew in not long after they’d holed up in a small but cozy café, keeping out of sight in a booth in the corner. Jim was familiar with the menu and Sherlock watched in amazement as he sipped his hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and sprinkles and used his spoon to illustrate his points as well. It was like a proper date. Sherlock knew that the people behind the counter had assumed it was, based on their looks and the disproving glances that he’d gotten for paying separately.

Color worked its way onto Jim’s cheeks, a warm healthy glow, and in the light of the café, his eyes were golden brown. If John saw, he probably would also assume it was a proper date.

Sherlock wondered if it was. It wasn’t the most conventional of relationships, granted, they still opposed and challenged one another, but nothing between them was genuinely malicious. Jim continued to talk about forgery and lick whipped cream from his spoon between words and Sherlock considered what Jim might do if he kissed him. He considered his own feelings about kissing him. It wasn’t something Sherlock had put thought into before the employees had assumed they were together, but he didn’t particularly mind the idea of it either. As long as they could continue to discuss all the things he enjoyed, kissing Jim wouldn’t be too bad.

Not that he would ever do that to John. But Jim was very interesting in a way that Sherlock could potentially see on an added romantic level and he quite enjoyed whipped cream. No, he wouldn’t do that to John.

Mycroft visited the flat a few days after Sherlock had gone to the café with Jim. John was thankfully out, and they spent nearly an hour going around in circles, discussing semantics for what constituted as cheating since Mycroft very well knew that for them intellectually, the conversations were an equivalent. Eventually Mycroft gave up with a dark look at Sherlock and stormed out, insisting that John wouldn’t approve at all, in some twisted appeal to Sherlock’s emotions.

But it did work. Sherlock reexamined everything and came to the conclusion that John wouldn’t be pleased with the arrangement. Several weeks went by and Sherlock resisted the temptation to text Jim, throwing himself into even the dullest of cases and dredging up long forgotten emotions to let John know what he was feeling, hoping to convince John that he was being better.

It didn’t take long for his difficulty speaking about his emotions to be brought up as evidence for him faking, Sherlock snapped and stormed out of the flat, firing off a text to Jim, asking to meet at the café.

And Jim was there, subdued and quiet and listening to Sherlock’s venting. It wasn’t until the end, when one of the tirades about John’s lack of understanding trailed off that Sherlock realized Jim hadn’t ordered a drink and that he hadn’t spoken at all, the only indication that he’d been paying attention being his eyes tracking Sherlock’s face.

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock felt he should know the answer to this and it was even worse.

“You just don’t sound happy. I’m not entirely sure why you bother.” Jim murmured, for the first time actually averting his gaze as he spoke, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased about his assessment.

“Oh, so you’re going to start criticizing me now too?” Sherlock hissed harshly, a cruel smile on his face, “Of course, you’re clearly the expert on healthy relationships.”

Jim was quiet, blank eyes flicking over Sherlock’s face a moment before he shook his head, “You were happier as friends. You don’t enjoy this added commitment or being told to force your emotions. I was simply pointing out that you don’t sound happy, but if you are then I’ve just made a mistake.”

“You don’t make mistakes.” Sherlock scoffed, “Isn’t that something that you’re proud of?”

“Everyone makes mistakes. I just have a better average than most.” Jim shrugged and stood, wrapping his scarf around his neck, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t vent to me about this sort of thing. It’s not why I join you for these talks. I’m not your therapist.”

“Then what are you?” Sherlock asked, staring up at Jim in a challenge.

“I’m like you.” Jim said calmly before heading to the door, leaving Sherlock alone to consider.

***

Within a few days they were back to their regular meetings, focusing exclusively on new esoteric discussions. More talks over coffee where Jim recommended books to Sherlock and when he failed to buy them in his free time, Jim gave him a bag full of them, recently purchased. Sherlock read them and then reread them before the fire across from John and wondered what Jim had thought with each line he had read. He didn’t just want to hear Jim’s overall ideas, each little fragment of thought that every word called to Jim’s mind with his readings was precious and Sherlock wanted to learn them. He wanted to memorize them as he read aloud to Jim and the man revealed more of his mind for Sherlock to admire.

Sherlock’s heart stopped one evening when he and John were in bed having sex and John murmured that he wanted to memorize every part of Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock realized that the same fervent tone that John used was the one he used himself when thinking of memorizing Jim’s mind. Was it that he was attracted to Jim’s mind? Was this the basis of his ideal relationship, one built on intelligence? If it was, that meant that he already could be too invested, that connection between them was too strong.

But even as he thought of Jim, Sherlock looked up at John and saw the love in his eyes and knew he couldn’t hurt him. John was broken without him, and while Sherlock needed Jim’s mind, he needed the stability that John provided as well. He needed a friend.

***

Sometimes on cases when he’d lost John in the rush, Sherlock would take a moment to go to his and Jim’s café to get a drink or just sit. The space, so closely associated with Jim, helped him focus on his cases and see patterns more easily. If Jim knew that he did it, he never commented.

Certain evenings, Jim suggested that they try something else. This usually involved visiting little bookstores and just sitting and reading together, or wandering around through the streets and window shopping. Or rather, Jim looked in windows and talked and Sherlock watched Jim and talked. They must look like a couple, Sherlock was certain, and he wondered why he was so preoccupied with thinking about how they appeared to others.

Jim’s hair got longer. He stopped leaving it down to do what it wanted and started to smooth it back with gel, and accompanying the altered hairstyle came a general sense of world weariness, like he was struggling to keep sufficiently distracted. Their meetings stretched on even longer, Jim talking and talking, asking questions, desperate for contact. Now that he’d gotten a taste of what acceptance was, he was struggling when he had to give it up, Sherlock could see. What little time they had together wasn’t enough, and with each meeting, Sherlock could see Jim slowly fading, eyes haunted and dark, the desperate way his hands moved when he explained things as if by keeping Sherlock interested, he would stay with him.

He was horribly isolated. Sherlock was all he had, it was obvious. And it felt unfair that someone so bright was burning himself out like this.

And then Sherlock messed up. They had been alone together in an aisle of a little bookstore and debating the importance of understanding their universe when Sherlock became so lost in the exhilarating rush that Jim’s counterargument brought on, endorphins flooding his system, that he crossed the space between them in a flash, locked his hands on Jim’s lapels and dragged him close for a kiss, barely stopping himself within an centimeter of Jim’s mouth. They breathed the same air and Sherlock stared at Jim.

It was one of the times that Sherlock managed to understand body language correctly in relation to him. The sudden stiffness of the man beneath his hands, the dark, pained eyes flicking over Sherlock’s face… there was definitely something wrong. It was as if the action physically hurt Jim because it had brought up all the unspoken things between them that they had simply understood, but now that the line had been crossed, the issues that now had to be worked through became palpable, that they would need to have an actual discussion about what they’d been avoiding.

Sherlock slowly relaxed his hands and set Jim back down, brow furrowing when he simply smoothed out his blazer, eyes once again empty of emotion, though the void was telling in its own way.

“I think that we should stop seeing each other.” Jim spoke at last, a hand sliding through his hair to eliminate imagined ruffles, voice low and neither playful nor foreboding, simply numb, “I don’t want this.”

Sherlock knew what Jim meant, even without him explaining. He wanted what was between them very badly, but he didn’t want this situation exactly. Being second to John. It was disrespectful to him.

“You’re different than him. You know that.” Sherlock knew begging was stupid and childish, that Jim’s mind wasn’t going to change unless Sherlock’s choices did, but he still felt that he had to try.

Jim shook his head slowly, finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “I’m also aware that I’m not good enough to be committed to. You are very special to me, I can’t keep doing this.”

Sherlock was silent. John was a good man, in his own way. He tried to help Sherlock see what was right even if at times he himself wasn’t the best person.

But Jim was not a good man. He wasn’t evil exactly either. He never got pleasure from killing, just that of an intellectual reward. To him, the people around him were so mentally inferior they were basically ants, and a few lives wouldn’t make any difference. And he wasn’t insane, despite what people thought, he knew right from wrong, he was in touch with reality. He respected Sherlock, he’d never hurt him, at least not in a way that he didn’t deserve. Sherlock was certain that whatever end Jim had devised for him, it would be worthy of his abilities. Not to mention that they’d gotten to know each other better since then, and Sherlock couldn’t be sure that Jim hadn’t changed his mind.

The work was art to him, the art of crime, and his canvas was so big that only Sherlock could critique it. He was alone in the world, painting for a man who couldn’t focus on him completely with his other partner. Sherlock suddenly understood why Jim liked to think about the universe. It probably felt good to take some time to consider how his problems weren’t very big in the whole scheme of things.

Jim needed distractions and Sherlock worried that if he ceased to distract him, that if their carefully constructed balance was somehow swayed, that Jim would do something drastic, lost in his own isolation and only seeing the one solution that could permanently put a stop to his ceaselessly racing brain before it tore itself apart. Jim was a risk to get involved with and to get away from.

He spoke again.

“I can’t ask you to choose. I’ve never had that connection with someone other than you and I know that although it’s not intellectual with John, it’s still important. Emotions are important, whether you give in to them or not.” Jim let out a slow sigh, relaxing the tension in his muscles, the tightly coiled anger at his own forced rejection, reminding himself that he wouldn’t have a happy ending anyway, “Do what you want, Sherlock. Indulge in your friendship. But you know that we are alike. And I’m nothing without you.” He offered a sad smile and left the store, once again looking at the stars while he walked to try to ignore how empty everything felt knowing that it wouldn’t be the same.

It was like all his life he’d been treading water, hoping to find something worth living for, and then Sherlock came with his boat and helped him see that there was a better life, but he couldn’t offer the whole boat. Jim could only hang onto the side. And here he’d slipped off and had gone back to treading water again, but now he was too tired to carry on like he had been all these years knowing that there would be no other boats. That this was it. Jim wrapped his coat tighter around himself and went back to his flat, mind dimming. There was only one problem left to solve.

 

Sherlock returned to Baker Street, stunned and confused. Jim had essentially given him up. He wasn’t moving on, that much was clear, but he’d let John have him. It felt so… wrong. He loved John as a friend, but their relationship was not in any way healthy or good, not for either of them. John needed a different kind of commitment than Sherlock could give him, but Jim and he were the same. They could commit mentally and Sherlock could tell that already real genuine feelings were coming from that. He’d wanted to kiss Jim, not to make him happy or because he was playing at emotions, but because the emotions were actually there, brought up from that connection they shared.

John was at the table on his computer when Sherlock came in and when he heard him, he looked up and frowned, “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t begin to explain, not with his emotions inaccessible around John, not when Jim was a criminal…

But Sherlock also hated to think that John was only there for him because he was one of the few people that would willingly put up with Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies. For the most part, though Sherlock knew that he was hard to be around, he felt that he could deserve better than someone who was settling for a machine. And Jim didn’t see it as settling, he saw it as winning the jackpot. The way he looked at Sherlock, he needed him like a drug, just like John did, but the difference was that John needed to take a break from Sherlock every once in a while to clear his head and question his choices, but Jim was willing and unaffected by the negative side effects. Jim was better for Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat softly and met John’s eyes, “I’m don’t think that you’re happy with me. I try very hard to open up to you, but I buried my emotions deeply to work on perfecting my deductive abilities and for you I simply cannot access them in a way that feels healthy. I’ve considered your feelings in this decision, and I realize that it’s wrong for me to force you to keep struggling to make me open up when it’s not in my nature to do so in this way.” He stepped closer, unsure of what was expected and how much was fair to say.

“I’ve been spending time with someone who is like me, and we’ve been creating a sort of cerebral friendship. I’ve found that my emotions for him have grown based on this connection and that we are more appropriate for one another than perhaps you and I. I don’t understand you, John. You’re ordinary and extraordinary in so many ways, you’re my best friend, but I’m afraid that our optimal state is friendship.” Sherlock ducked his head remorsefully, not wanting to see John’s reaction.

“You’re breaking up with me.” There was a long silence where John stared at Sherlock, feeling a bit blindsided, but slowly he took his time working through his emotions, then how it seemed from a logical point of view.

“You met someone as smart as you?” John asked finally, deciding that he would sort through how he felt later, though looking at their history of Sherlock failing to act completely typical made it a bit easier to process. It kind of made sense.

“Yes.” Sherlock looked up, eyes wide, “I’m sorry, John. I just think that I shouldn’t lead you on. Or do something rash with him before I’ve gotten things with you sorted out.”

John thought for a few moments, looking at the wall with a blank gaze before finally his eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock in shock, “Moriarty?”

Sherlock cringed, nodding slightly, “Yes.”

“Aren’t you scared that he’ll hurt you?” John asked, frowning darkly.

“He won’t. He respects me. And I respect him.” Sherlock explained, thankful that John wasn’t yelling at least, “He… can be helped I think. Even if I can’t steer him right, I still want to be around him, but I think that I can get him onto a slightly better path. I want to do this.”

John was quiet again, taking it all in before he swallowed and nodded, “I’ll sleep in my bedroom tonight then, move my clothes tomorrow.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock managed a breathless smile.

“I can’t promise that my emotions won’t come out at times though, I’m still very upset with you for what you did.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “You could have told me.”

“I wanted to try for you.” Sherlock murmured, “But I should have told you.”

John looked up at Sherlock, wishing he’d seen it coming when it seemed so obvious now, “It might take a bit of getting used to, seeing him around here. I might need to have my gun on me always to feel safe.”

Sherlock quirked an amused smile, “I’m not certain that he’ll be visiting that much, he’s very busy with work, but maybe occasionally.”

Later, John put new sheets on his bed and put the dusty ones in the hamper, settling into sleeping alone again. Sherlock got into his own bed as well and found that he could actually breathe without worrying about smiling at the right phrase or making himself hold anyone. He resolved to find Jim the next day, then fell asleep.

***

The next morning Sherlock, dressed and ready to go, fired off a text on his way to the hospital.

-Please come to Bart’s Hospital rooftop. I need to talk to you about us. SH-

The response came as Sherlock pulled up outside.

-I’m here. JM-

Sherlock made his way up to the roof, heart pounding. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d done something so risky or emotional.

And there was Jim, sitting in his old spot with his phone beside him, staring blankly.

“Are you here to watch? I chose a good place to do it I think…” Jim turned to look at the street, voice weary.

“Do it? Do what?” Sherlock asked gently, not wanting to scare Jim in such a fragile state of mind. He could tell that it was too much, he needed to get Jim away from that edge and to the café, he needed to bring him back so things would be set right.

“Complete our story.” Jim shrugged exaggeratedly, looking to Sherlock, “It was stupid of me to spend time with you. I should have just played the game.”

“We aren’t playing anymore games.” Sherlock said calmly, “I don’t want to play. I just want you.”

Jim laughed hoarsely, wind ruffling his carefully gelled hair just slightly, “Don’t you know? I don’t get a happy ending.”

“This can be our version of a happy ending.” Sherlock stepped closer, wanting to pull Jim into a hug though the urge was foreign to him, “Please, let me take you out for hot chocolate. We can talk, we can talk about the stars and you can get everything out and I won’t leave when we stop talking, I’ll just sit with you. Jim, we can do this. We can have this.”

Jim looked up at Sherlock, eyes dark, “You have John.”

“John isn’t you, he doesn’t understand. I explained things and we’ll be fine. It’s only about you now. It always has been.” Sherlock knelt in front of Jim, pleading, “You said that we’re alike but we’re not. We’re the same. You’re the other half of me, I’ve been incomplete this whole time and now I need you. Jim, you know it’s true. I’m nothing without you. I can keep you distracted, I can sustain you like you can sustain me. Let me in.” Sherlock offered his hand.

Jim blinked, studying Sherlock for several breathless moments before he carefully slid his hand into Sherlock’s, squeezing to reassure himself that he was real, “We’re the same.”

“You’re me.” Sherlock gently tugged Jim away from the edge and into a hug, keeping their clasped hands together between them, amazed that this was their first real contact since any of this had started. It felt so natural. Jim leaned against Sherlock with his face pressed into his warm shoulder, ignoring his snow soaked knees, just feeling Sherlock’s hand and his body, desperate for more. He needed to be sure that Sherlock wouldn’t leave.

“I’m going to take you to the café and I’m going to pay for anything that you want, alright?” Sherlock whispered, free hand rubbing Jim’s back.

Jim managed a nod but didn’t bother moving just yet, and Sherlock didn’t force him. They stayed exactly how they’d been, accepting one another completely.

Later, Sherlock would walk Jim downstairs and to the café, he’d buy him hot chocolate and keep their hands locked together and watch in fascination as Jim gestured even more wildly without the aid of his second hand to help illustrate his points, but in their moment on the roof, they reminded themselves that they’d finally found the one person to help them solve their final problem.


End file.
